Snapped Fingers
by Prelude To A New Reign
Summary: Harry discovered a new way to defeat the Dark Lord... while snapping his own fingers for pleasure and getting involved in an unhealthy relationship.
1. Prologue

_**Title**: Snapped Fingers_

_**Rating**: T_

_**Pairing(s)**: HarryxDraco_

_**Summary**: Harry discovered a new way to defeat Voldemort while snapping his own fingers…_

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_**Disclaimer**: I don't own Harry Potter and Co._

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**_-Prologue-_**

Surrey, drowned in absolute silence of midnight, shone like a haunted, demonic town under the ephemeralness of silver moonlight. The feeble light penetrated the thick air that reeked of pollution and dog piss, revealed the other side of a revered region of Muggle England – where the Light retreated, the Dark took reign. Every dirty little secret would disappear in the morning, leaving nothing but elegant garden fences and respectable neighborhood, but then, there was nobody to notice the vast difference that this reverence of a harmless Muggle town portrayed in years. And that was before the delinquent of a freak named Harry James Potter made his God-forsaken appearance into the land of utopia.

The only magical being of Surrey was in the moment stretching comfortably in the cupboard of Four Privet Drive. With space that was merely enough for a ten year old to fit in with little difficulty, the cupboard did a wonderful job in completely cramping and imprisoning a sixteen year old, even if that person was only a midget compared to his friends. So there he lied, legs wrapped up awkwardly, glass askew, dreamy emerald eyes half lid, staring into nothingness. He didn't care about what he saw – no matter how much his irises dilated his mind only acknowledged a veil of sheer darkness. And the cat flap wasn't giving much help.

Moving his hips to a better position, he twisted his fingers nonchalantly, trying to eventually break one as his thoughts strayed to the Wizarding World. He sensed his nostrils flared up; his finger snapped leanly, hanging limp from his skeletal hand. He embraced the pain, he was tempted to break a second finger, yet he stopped, knowing that he wouldn't be able to hold his wand if all ten fingers were broken to his adrenaline. Surely he would find another way… pain was so addicting that he couldn't afford to lose its taste. He caressed the wounded finger; slowly, caressing became crushing; he didn't flinched, he watched with fascination as the fracture reddened from the oozing blood under ungrazed skin. He sucked the snapped finger, enjoying what little pain was left before it went completely numb. And when it happened, he let out a sigh; he ran the other hand on the wound, mumbling a chant that sounded almost like a song: the numb finger slowly set back as straight and untouched as the unbroken ones, the red spot disappeared along with the bone fracture.

He snapped eventually all ten fingers several times until a disk on the cupboard door was heard. Grinning like a Cheshire cat, he quickly resumed his standing stance, ignored the cramp that has been devouring his knees and stormed out, straight to the toilet. He took a piss, washed his hair and body, even shaved off his face; the last action made his pale skin now glow faintly and his crimson eyes from lack of sleep stand out. He contented with himself; he looked like a vampire after sexual intercourses. Changing into a baggy jean and an oversized T-shirt – courtesy Dudley Dursley, he leapt out of the toilet and into the kitchen, where he flashed a toothy smile to the whales that were waiting for breakfast and picked up the knife. The horse was hospitalized the other day, having been crushed by the bigger whale in a staircase accident, so he had to cook full time. That didn't bother him one bit.

He twisted the knife between his newly-healed fingers before ruthlessly slicing the bacon and the sausages. He flipped the knife skillfully and sent the meat flying neatly into the frying pain, along with eggs and leftover of roasted chicken last night. The fat was sizzling, and he couldn't resist the temptation of frying his skin as he pompously hovered his index above the fire; his eyes dazed as the finger moved downward slowly, until it reached the blue fire underneath. When the skin and the outer layer of the flesh were completely burnt, he took off the fire. Again, he healed his finger and served the breakfast to the waiting whales, then stomped back to his cupboard and began his favorite past-time game, namely Fingers Snapping.

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_My apologies to people who find this prologue graphically disturbing._

_Press that lovely button down there… and I'll love you for an eternity… - Prelude To A New Reign_


	2. Chapter 1: Unexpected Meeting

_**Title**__: Snapped Fingers_

_**Rating**__: T_

_**Pairing(s)**__: HarryxDraco_

_**Summary**__: Harry discovered a new way to defeat Lord Voldemort… while snapping his fingers as a hobby and getting involved in an unhealthy relationship._

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_**Disclaimer**__: I don't own anything but the plot._

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_**-Chapter 1: Unexpected Meeting-**_

Thrusting both hands into the pockets of his pants, the Boy Who Lived walked at ease in the crowded Diagon Alley and toward Gringotts. It was so easy to sneak out of Privet Drive even though the Order kept him in tight leash - he didn't even need the Invisibility Cloak to mask his escape. Instead, a few throwing stones until the poor wizard or witch felt annoyed and switched position – in the same time, a black shadow dashed through the fence without a sound. And when the guardian went back to work, he or she would only hear Vernon's ranting about him and would undoubtedly suspect that he was still in the house doing chores like a good boy. But then, Harry was not a good boy, not in many aspects. In the moment, his hair was spiked dark green, baggy jeans and long shirt embraced his lean frame, onyx contact lens on his eyes. He was a delinquent under Muggles' eyes and a Dark Wizard in training in Wizarding Community's point of view. He liked his appearance, nonetheless. Despised looks were thrown at him and withered under his flashing feral smile.

Gringotts, like usual, stuffed with rich snob customers and indifferent goblins, was deemed the safest place in Britain, at least after the unsuccessful break out of the Philosopher's Stone in his first year. Goblins were ones in the few magical creatures that Harry could tolerate, mainly because they never treated him differently than a client. Upon seeing his famous lightning-shaped scar, most of them ignored it and few others scrutinized it with narrow eyes before shrugging and turning back to their work. He respected the elvish creatures for their ignorance, and they respected him, for not being rich stuck-up snobs. Like the Malfoys, whose maintenance held high above their delicate noses.

He walked out of Gringotts, hands still thrust into his pocket. Keeping the leaping pace, he made his way towards a pub named _Spider's Intestines_. It had taken him a whole summer last year, sneaking under the Order's nose and trying to figure out the pathway to the darker side of Diagon Alley. Stepping inside the bar, he let a smirk spread across his face: he wasn't affected by the loud Muggle music erected from two enormous magically-enhanced amply, unlike most of purebloods who scrunched up their faces at the offensive music. Knowing very well only his Slytherin glamour kept him alive, he approached the bar and ordered a drink.

'Firewhiskey and Tequila' he nodded. Again, magic and non-magic formed the most beautiful things.

While waiting for the drink, Harry turned to his left and immediately spotted a hooded figure knocking down his cherry Brandy. Curiosity clicked on, he observed the stranger blatantly. Apart from the black hood, the stranger had silkily soft platinum hair and pale skin glowing in the muffed darkness of the hood. He wasn't very tall, probably about Harry's height of 5'9, but has slim, lean frame. His aristocrat pureblood look didn't make him powerful, whereas he looked innocent and fragile. If not for the hood, the raven/green-haired wizard would have broken him with his sharp gaze.

'Firewhiskey and Tequila. Eleven Sickles' the bartender said coldly, slamming the drink down the wooden surface.

Sipping his drink, Harry resumed his observation. The stranger fidgeted under his shameless stare. He quickly finished his Brandy, much to the other wizard's attention, and was about the leave when said wizard stopped him.

'Beautiful' was all Harry said.

The platinum-haired turned so fast that his hood slipped, revealing his face: Draco Malfoy. Harry bit back his surprise, but the crowd did not. This pub might be safe for Malfoy Sr. but young Draco, by wandering around here, risked being kidnapped for ransom since his family was known for its power and wealth. As a result, some with odd look in their eyes stood up from their tables and approached the bar, promising not-so-light threat to the young aristocrat, who fumbled in sudden frustration, grabbed his cloak and try to walked in normal pace to the entrance to Knockturn Alley, which happened to be at the end of the bar and filled with unfriendly magical creatures.

Well, Harry decided, there was only one way to solve this problem without raising so much trouble. He stood up, too, and before Draco could get away, he snatched his collar and pulled him into a kiss.

The moment their lips came into contact, everything seemed to freeze. The green-haired's arm grasped tightly around the other's slim waist, daring him to run, his tongue softly caressed the panting lips; he bit them slightly, extracted a muffed yelp from his partner. While Draco shut his eyes, Harry's unearthly emerald irises slit into sharp glare, challenging anyone to come near and forcefully claiming him as his.

Harry's legs unconsciously dragged both of them to the gate leading to Knockturn Alley. He released his grasp a little; his numbing hand pushed the stony door with sheer force as they tumbled through. Their kiss broke as Draco hastily pulled up his hood and Apparated away without a word, leaving Harry in a dazed state. Now he regretted not playing more with the young Malfoy – he could have had at least a bit on the delicate pale neck. He couldn't predict whether he wanted a relationship with him, he just wanted to have Draco in his arms again. And when September started, Draco wouldn't be able to run away… from him…

Harry pushed the door of _Borgin and Burkes_ with unnecessary force; the door made a loud creak as it scratched the hard stony floor. The shop smelt of dust and darkness; the latter was strongly erected from countless dark artifacts. Somehow, Harry felt relaxed, as if his magic has found its true origin. He inhaled the burnt smell of old wood and almost jumped when Mr. Borgin showed up from nowhere and breathed into his neck: 'Are you looking for something unhealthy, young man?'

'I need a custom wand' said Harry, recovered from his surprise. Gray eyes scrutinized him thoroughly, lingering on his famous scar that he just let it appear on purpose. The younger wizard calmly put his ignorant mask into play and waited. After what seemed like an eternity, Borgin spoke: 'I see'. He motioned for Harry to follow him, to the back of the shop.

Upon walking through the creaking wooden door that separated a normal dark shop from a storage full of dark and dangerous artifacts, the young wizard inhaled sharply, eyes gleaming with odd interest. The cabinet reeked of dark magic and powerful ancient forces. If not for the mask of ignorance that he so excelled in faking, he would have jumped up and down like a hyperventilated child or even fretted with unconcealed surprise, especially when Borgin appeared all of a sudden and breathed down his neck again just like one certain Potions Master: 'Lay your hand over them, young man. You shall be able to find the most appropriate materials for your wand'

Harry shut his eyes in concentration. He could hear a distant voice calling him in his mind, embracing him with surreal corporal hands. He felt reliving the sensation of pain – how he missed it, he might become a masochist. The pain always embraced him, offering him a sense of safety, which he was sure nobody would believe even if he told one. He numbly walked to them, feeling the urgent charming tug disappear when his bare skin touched the materials. He opened his eyes again to see Borgin frowning in thoughts.

'Onyx and thestral's breath, young man? It's an uncommon combination, but undoubtedly very powerful. Nevertheless, I'm afraid I can't make this wand'

Harry was disappointed, but such emotion was not to show on his face. He asked with icy voice: 'May I know the reason, Mr. Borgin?'

'Wands made of onyx always required two cores, Mr. Potter. As you already know, onyx is not a kind of wood. Here we can only find one of the cores, which is thestral's breath' said Borgin, sounding sorry at the lost opportunity of a challenge.

An image of a diary brutally stabbed with a basilisk fang tickled his mind. Turning back to the old wizard, Harry said: 'I will send you the other core during terms. It's in Hogwarts. You will charge me from my trusted vault and deliver the wand to me safely'

'Am I to believe, that our conversation will be kept private?' said Harry, smirking upon seeing Borgin's nod.

His next stop was a bookstore that located deep down inside the heart of Knockturn Alley, where Harry was sure that Purebloods, despite their stuck-up attitude, wouldn't hesitate to visit for dark documentations. Like _Flourish and Blotts_, it had manual books for schooling purpose, but also had every other kind of books that exceeded in darkness and rarity. However, Harry came here not to buy school books that he could easily through by Owl Order. He was looking for books and documents that concentrated on Parsel-magic, which has been believed to be lost along with its famous users, the Slytherin blood line, seeing as Voldemort was now the only survivor.

Harry's sharp green eyes darted through thick, ancient tomes of leather and worn-out looking papers, being well aware of darkness erecting from every word written. He stopped occasionally to check out books worth his attention, solely about the art of Occlumency and Leligimency. He then stumbled upon a small notebook that had weird, scrawling scribbles and looked oddly like a certain notebook back in his second year. He picked it up with interest. Surprisingly, under his eyes, the unreadable scribbles slowly turned into Latin alphabets, and Harry could read the words written in deep dark green ink: '_Diary of Salazar Slytherin_'.

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_**A/N**__: I intended to let Draco know of his kisser's true identity, but then decided to save it for later chapter. This chapter isn't so much of a twisted Harry as I planned, and was shorter than I expected, too. So, what do you think?_


	3. Chapter 2: The Missing Of Vernon Dursley

_Harry's sharp green eyes darted through thick, ancient tomes of leather and worn-out looking papers, being well aware of darkness erecting from every word written. He stopped occasionally to check out books worth his attention, solely about the art of Occlumency and Leligimency. He then stumbled upon a small notebook that had weird, scrawling scribbles and looked oddly like a certain notebook back in his second year. He picked it up with interest. Surprisingly, under his eyes, the unreadable scribbles slowly turned into Latin alphabets, and Harry could read the words written in deep dark green ink: 'Diary of Salazar Slytherin'._

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_**-Chapter 2: The Missing Of Vernon Dursley-**_

'Boy, get down here, now!'

Harry mentally winced at the thunderous growl of the Whale Senior that went by another name Uncle Vernon. He was deeply annoyed, being in mid-way concentration to learn Occlumency without Snape's so-called education, and then his uncle had to shout and turn his mind upside down again. Nevertheless, he crouched to the living room – his feet wobbling from being cramped in impossible deformation of human anatomy – to see what happened.

Vernon stood in the middle of the room, his face adopting an admirable shade of purple and two slaps of meat forming his cheeks were heaving furiously. His hand clutched a bottle of alcohol; the other grasped the sofa for support – the furniture kept shivering under his whale-ish weight. He pointed at Harry with a meaty finger, bellowing in rants:

'It's because of you! I lost my job because of you, boy! Worthless son of a bitch!'

Vernon stalked toward Harry, who didn't even dodge the cuff given to him. The teen soon collapsed under his first punch, as Vernon straddled him and punched him in the face until his temple bled. Not satisfied enough, he kicked Harry in the ribs, repeatedly, regardless several resounding 'crack' in his torso. By the time his Uncle finished, nobody could recognize the Boy Who Lived: blood oozed out from his nose and mouth, his eyes blued, nearly every ribs broken and his arms and legs twisted in bizarre angles.

Harry hadn't uttered a single sound. Emerald irises stared right through his uncle's tiny black holes, who, for the first time in his life, felt a speckle of fear crawl inside him when his nephew's battered face allowed a single tooth grin.

Vernon, now in pure panic for the 'psycho freak', took several steps back, grasping the hinge for support when suddenly the door snapped shut, crashing his finger with a deathly 'crack'. Looking bewilderedly at the missing finger that lied not so far from his feet and the bloody mess of his hand, the Muggle was too shocked to even stutter. The purple drained from his face, replaced by horrified whitest of the white. Clutching his bleeding hand, he tried to tear away from his nephew's freezing stare to no avail. For once, his piggy black eyes widened as the enormous hanging lamp yanked itself from the ceiling and fell straight to his head.

Vernon Dursley – respected neighbor and despicable ex-worker of Grunning Drills, faithful husband and rotten fatherly figure – died, his eyes ever so dull and yet so alive, just like a case of accidental Avada Kedavra, with the falling lamp as beautiful addiction to the mess of gore and blood that had been previously his forehead.

Harry's throat was to dry and drenched with internal blood to hum a celebration, but his mood wasn't spoiled. He shut his eyes and began calling upon his magic. The flow of magical energy soothed his aching muscles, relocated his bones, purified his tainted blood. A gently tickling sensation surrounded his body, slowly closing his wounds, leaving only new fragile skin to cover the newly-healed injuries. In the end, his breath became normal and he could stand up, though weakly, since he had used nearly all his magical reverse to the wandless healing. He counted himself lucky; if Petunia and her Dudders had been home, he wouldn't have had any strength left to fight for his life, should have they ever harmed him in order to avenge their husband and father. And no bloody Order member could have witness his 'accidental' murder, because the curtains were shut and the noise wasn't that loud through the thick walls.

Harry lied still for a while so that his magical power could somewhat regenerate. That was very risky of him; Petunia and Dudley could be home in any minute. Luck again hasn't forsaken the Boy Who Lived – one hour later, when Vernon's blood has developed into a huge crimson pond on the whitened floor, nobody has rang the door yet. Harry felt much better; his magic was nowhere near enough to perform anything wandless, but could hold a demonstrative duel with a Death Eater trainee, which he was sure, was going to be bloody and dirty.

Harry turned back to the smallest bedroom and took Slytherin's diary and his wand with him. He then went to the garden, carefully closed the door so that the thick scent of coppery wouldn't follow him. He crept into the backyard, where he believed Auror Tonks was watching him. It took him a few minutes to find out her safe hiding place – she was straddling on the apple tree in the garden, peering down on him with a vision-enhanced charm and an invisibility charm, no doubt. Harry grinned.

He snatched several sturdy looking stones around and began throwing them madly onto the apple tree.

It wasn't long before Harry heard a painful yelp and a suspicious 'thud' of somebody who just fell to the ground straight on the backside. Auror Tonks lied pathetically in a heap, cheeks slightly flushed and legs spread in awkward angle. Spotting a smirking Harry, Tonks tried to stand up and winced immediately as her ankle gave out a resounding snap.

'It's Severus' job to be smirking at me, Harry, not yours' she stated scornfully. Harry smiled tentatively at her ankle, which Tonks was rubbing in pain, his eyes full of mirth.

'You should use your wand instead of your hand, Nymph'

Tonks looked at him with confusion – he had just called her Nymph instead of the normal Tonks, hadn't he? She eyed him askance, picked up her wand and pointed at the dislocated ankle, but then dropped it with a sigh.

'I'm no good in healing. I can cure small cuts and all that, but not bone fractures or anything else. This spell will have to suffice'

'I wonder, Nymph' Harry decided to use this nickname again, seeing as she didn't object 'How on Earth you became an Auror. I fear for my life' said the boy mockingly; his later grin showed that he was only joking. Tonks replied with a dry smile.

'Shut up, brat. I'm one of a kind, you know. Anyway, what are you doing here? You're supposed to be inside and not to know about my presence, too'

'I'm not gonna tell you' Harry teased.

'Fine, Brat' Tonks huffed. The teenagers smiled.

'You really want to know, don't you?' he smirked inwardly when Tonks' eyes somewhat brightened 'I know everything because…' he paused. Tonks tapped her fingers impatiently.

'… because I am the Boy Who Lived!'

'Now that wasn't really an answer, was it?'

'Of course it wasn't. Really, Nymph, have I said that I meant it to explain?'

Tonks glared at the raven haired wizard. It was a wonder, she thought, that the young man in front of her could still be so open and caring, especially with a burden that nobody should carry and after such trauma of losing the last family. His black hair, she noticed, was as unruly as ever, and there was even a speckle of mirth in those smiling green eyes. She knew that she shouldn't empathize with him, let alone pity him, knowing that a headstrong like him would certainly object those granted emotions. But then, it wasn't really her place to utter importance to him.

They really shouldn't have, in the beginning… thrown him into a dangerous Wizarding World with such task that no normal teenager wizard should ever be assigned to…

That was all the feeble mind of an over-clumsy Auror could work up, before a voice snapped her out of reverie: 'Nymph, why can you do magic here?'

Tonks blinked: 'What do you mean?'

'I mean, in my second year a house elf wandlessly Levitating a birthday cake in my house and that resulted in me being warned for performing magic out of school. I wouldn't have had a trial in my fifth year if that hadn't happened. So I thought that if you are an underage wizard or witch and you do magic in Muggle area or out of school, there will be consequences. But you did an Invisibility Charm to hide yourself not so long ago, and there hadn't been any owl visiting me with Ministry letter. Why is that?'

Tonks was currently staring into two most innocent eyes she had ever seen. The young Auror did felt a bit guilty – she has been told not to mention about the tracking spell place on every wizard and witch's registered wand and to let Harry believe not to meddle around with Dark Arts, nevertheless, when she thought twice, she saw no reason to follow that order. Dark Arts or not, Harry needed to know to defense himself from anything that belonged to You-Know-Who, and Tonks understood it very well, having her early years devoting to the Blacks library. Ironically, the Ministry, the Order, even Kingsley – her most trusted – weren't even aware of her Dark Arts knowledge.

'Harry, I'm not supposed to tell you about this' Tonks began, inwardly cursing the innocent look Harry was giving her 'After too much accidental magic performing that tend to happen before at least Hogwarts fifth year, the Ministry decided to place the tracking charm on the wands instead of their owners' living area. I was told not to notify you, because Albus thought you might try something harmful to yourself or worse, your relatives' Tonks saw the emerald shade in Harry's eyes darkened upon the mention of the headmaster; in a blink of an eye, the dark glint was gone and replaced by – Tonks was unsure – normal curiosity.

'So, this means if I use another wand instead of mine, the Ministry won't know a thing?' Tonks nodded 'Nymph, can I borrow your wand? My Aunt left me chores to do and I just can't finish it. Please, just a few _Evanesco_-es'

Tonks handed him her wand. She considered helping him but a firm look in his eyes silenced her wish. She being wandless in a moment wasn't too much of a threat, since she knew that nobody was lurking around. Her eyes trailed after the wizard's slim form as he dashed inside without thoughts.

Harry quickly closed the door, not the let the smell of dry blood escape. He didn't lie when he said 'just a few Evanesco-es'; those Banishment Charms came very handy in this situation and would actively saved him from a life sentence in Azkaban. Harry looked down at his Uncle's corpse, which still erected flickering warmth and hasn't lost the pinkish shade of the meaty cheeks. Pointing the mahogany wand straight to the unmoving buffy chest, Harry murmured: '_Evanesco_'

Vernon Dursley's corpse and his separated finger vanished without a trace. Gone were the puddle of blood and the broken hanging lamp. Gone was the thick scent of blood as well as the crime of accidental murder. Harry felt somewhat satisfied. He lapped into the garden, where an impatient Tonks was waiting.

'All set, Nymph' he chirped.

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The gigantesque stony door was left open, led to hundred of shelves that sagged under millions of books that classed themselves from healing magic to the darkest of Dark Arts, from Occlumency to Leligimency, from cure-boils potions to most dangerous reviving draught. A single, enormous fireplace carved of black graphite and decored with untarnished finest wood stood out in the center of the great chamber, where the bookshelves closed themselves in a circle. In front of the flickering fire, sat an aristocrat wizard in his armchair made from most expensive Asian silk. His platinum hair was tied in the back, revealed a pair of transparent silver eyes that stared attentively at the first page of Daily Prophet, newest edition.

The grayscale picture, taken by Rita Skeeter's assistant, showed two antagonized Muggles crying upon their dead family, an upset teenager wizard accused of murder and a very frustrated headmaster who lost his usual twinkle in the eyes. According to the papers, Vernon Dursley – uncle of Harry Potter – was found missing last evening, along with an expensive hanging lamp. The Boy Who Lived seemed heart-broken upon this sudden and tragic trauma.

The aristocrat quietly chuckled when he glanced at the text: _'He gave me a home when I became an orphan, he taught me everything. I want you back, Uncle Vernon' – said Mr. Potter._

'Brilliant acting, Mr. Potter' murmured Lucius Malfoy 'I should have known when a twelve-year-old midget freed my house elf… I should have known'

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After the missing of Vernon Dursley was officially announced, the Four Privet Drive was bombarded with 'the worst sort of freak' – said Petunia Dursley – that varied from Hogwarts headmaster, Minister of Magic, reporters of the Daily Prophet and the Quibblers, to simply curious wizards and witches. This caused a battle royal between reporters trying to get the best story in every way possible and shouting contest, starring Albus Dumbledore and Rufus Scrimgeour – the newly-elected Minister – about Harry Potter's being. Of course, the Muggle outsiders heard nothing and saw nothing.

Our very Harry Potter completely stayed out of the mess, only because Petunia banished him into the smallest bedroom that was heavily locked and single-handedly handled the freaks. Left with nothing to do, Harry decided to tamper with the diary of the first Parselmouth a little. He knew that it was just like Riddle's, from its totally blank pages. Dipping the quill into the brand new ink well, he wrote: 'Salazar Slytherin'

Series of scribbles floated on the page, clearly read: _'Try writing in Parseltongue, mortal'_ Harry chuckled. Observing the snake texture more closely, he wrote again, this time in the language of the reptiles: _'Hello, Salazar Slytherin'_

'_No need to acknowledge me twice, young Serpent'_ the Founder replied _'How did you come across my precious diary?'_

'_I bought it in Knockturn Alley with three Knuts for an unreadable book'_ Harry mused. Slytherin's mood seemed darkened at the very idea of his own diary being sold like normal goods, let alone with three Knuts.

'_I'm not amused, youngling. Now, may I know your name?'_

'_Harry James Potter, the destined one to destroy your heir'_

'_Heir? I do not have any heir, Mr. Potter'_ the scribbling spoke of confusion. Harry's eyes narrowed. Salazar didn't even know that he had an heir? Or Voldemort was just being a fraud? But then, he was rather powerful for a fraud.

'_What do you mean? Isn't it that Tom Riddle declared himself as the only survivor of the Slytherin bloodline?'_

'_Ah, that young Serpent'_ Salazard seemed to frown _'Riddle is no heir of mine, youngling. He may have the knowledge and the Slytherin bloodline, but these powers do not make him my heir'_

'_So he was boasting then'_ wrote Harry, a smug smile crawled its way to his face.

'_Of course. I have no such heir. Even if I do despise Muggles, I do not kill innocents. Now, youngling'_ Harry could feel Salazar's tone become serious _'Have you even wondered how a diary could reply to your questions?'_

Harry shrugged: _'It's not that special, you know. Riddle had one, too, but I destroyed it in my second year'_

'_Riddle knows, too? That is not good, not good at all'_

'_What do you mean by that? And Tom knows what?'_

'_Young Serpent, how much do you know about Horcruxes?'_

'_What exactly is a Horcrux?'_

Salazar's tone became colder and colder in every minute, just as Harry's curiosity increased _'Making horcruxes is one of the darkest branch of magic. In an approximate way of saying, it is what the Muggles name 'necromancy'. A horcrux is a part of your soul, anchored in a specified object or even living thing'_

Needless to say, Harry was shocked. Not only he had to kill Voldemort, he also had to find all his goddamned horcruxes and destroy them in order to completely banish him from the land of living.

'_Your diary is a horcrux, too?'_ Harry wrote. A 'yes' was all Salazar's reply. And Harry knew that the Founder was hiding something from him.


End file.
